Losing Your Voice
by Giggle-Pie
Summary: Everyone loves the voice of singer Alfred F. Jones, but none of them know the one person's voice that it actually is. xx AU
1. Chapter 1

Author Note:

Hello! I ah… Just want to say thanks for the reviews and favs on my last story—it means a lot!

This will most likely be a two-shot, maybe three chapters, depending on how it works out—bear with me here! It's sort of short, I suppose, and I could've worked it into a oneshot but it would've been a bit awkward. Also, I know it's super corny and I'm sorry? Aha? This could possibly be described as a song fic, but I really don't think so—

Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia. The song lyrics are from Snow Patrol's song _Open Your Eyes_. Clearly, I don't own those lyrics, either. Thanks for reading! :'3

* * *

People really loved Alfred F. Jones; Alfie, Al, A.F., Mr. Jones, no matter the alias, they liked him. They liked his songs. They liked his face and his cowlick and his blue eyes and his lips and nearly every part of him, even the parts they haven't seen.

They liked his voice.

But it wasn't _his_ voice. His voice only came out when he was singing in the shower, or when he was alone and ready to face defeat, or when he was really, really desperate to prove something to someone. Alfred wasn't a bad singer, it's just that "his" voice was better.

The voice was that of his assistant, Arthur Kirkland; to the media, though, he was but an assistant, a manager-type helper, not the one with the wondrous voice. Alfred would go on stage, lip-sync without raising any suspicion, and get fans while Arthur stood backstage singing his heart out for the benefit someone else.

Arthur had always said, even as a boy, that he wanted his voice to be heard by millions. It's one of the reasons that he always says "be careful what you wish for" to anyone who will listen. Arthur wanted his words to be heard by millions, too, but he had little input on what lyrics would go where. Not even Alfred helped with that; the media, however, seemed oblivious to the lack of soul in the songs. Arthur figured it was because of Alfred's looks and dropped that thought train right there.

Now Arthur's sitting in his dressing—no, _rehearsal_ room, they called it, a few hours before show time. It was just a small concert today, one that was more or less on the down low, and far from where they lived in New York City. It was somewhere in Montana, that Arthur knew, and he didn't press for much more. There was, however, one interesting rumor going about the concert that it had been funded for all by one man, for his daughter's sixteenth birthday, or something of the like. Kids these days, Arthur thought, and their parents. Good grief.

"Hey, Arthur!"

He hadn't even noticed the door had opened, but there was Alfred, smiling and beaming and looking so natural that if you didn't watch television you wouldn't know he was a singing teen idol. Arthur snorted as some sort of greeting before turning back to the sheets of music.

"Still going over songs…?" Alfred sounded a bit defeated here, but he kept going, swiftly picking up pep. "I thought maybe we could hang out! I'm sure there won't be any paparazzi or anything, so we could go get something to eat and stuff?"

Arthur tapped a pen on the table in thought, though he didn't want to appear as if he was actually thinking of accepting Alfred's offer. "I really can't right now, unlike you, I've got things to practice for."

"Oh, uh, yeah, okay, sorry for asking. I'll just go."

Alfred's words stung, but Arthur was completely against getting close to anyone, especially in America; he really didn't plan to stay here long, he only wanted to come to launch his career, likewise. But somehow he got into this mess and found himself unable to leave it all behind, to dissipate Alfred's career, their career.

It wouldn't be fair, not to Alfred. Whether either of them liked it or not, without the other, there was nothing to them. Arthur "had the voice", they said, "but not the image"; Alfred "had fantastic looks" and "a decent voice, but not decent enough".

Arthur turned back to his page of paper and continued writing a song; it wasn't long until he drifted into some sort of stressed, high-strung sleep.

* * *

Alfred was mad.

And it wasn't because Arthur blew him off, it was because of what he said. Even though Arthur did the main part, it was stressful being the one who had to go out and act it. Who had to go in front of tons of people and lip-sync, who had to bear the weight of the media… Who had to steal the credit from the one who deserved it.

It bore on him more than anyone would've guessed. Yes, Alfred was thick, but he was prone to guilt and he often trapped himself in his own thoughts; countless times during a day he would imagine what it would be like if he stopped it all. Alfred had been debating on stopping all of this for a long time, just calling Arthur out on stage and saying "this is the voice you've been hearing, this is who sings it, thanks for your time, but we'll no longer be making any more songs"; that would be it, the end, and they'd go their separate ways.

As tempting as that was for Alfred, it was the _separate ways_ part that got him. He didn't want to go his separate ways with Arthur—he liked him. And he also knew that Arthur didn't like him, not even as a friend. There were still times when Arthur would call him "Mr. Jones" instead of Alfred, and it made Alfred feel as if Arthur were below him. If anything, Arthur was more important than him. All Alfred ever thought himself as was the face, just a pretty guy, moving his lips to someone else's voice.

Alfred was incredibly jealous of Arthur's talent. He'd even take those eyebrows if it meant he could sing like that; it'd be so worth it, that's how much Alfred admired his voice. Yet, he'd also never say that he thought the thick brows were charming, albeit in a way all their own.

What he didn't know was that if it weren't for him being him, Arthur would've left, and long ago. Of course Arthur liked him, it was hard not to like him. Alfred was still himself, after all of the fame, the fortune (most of which he politely declined, or sent it off to charity, muttering about some hero thing), everything; the girls that threw themselves at him, the guys that threw themselves with him. He never got with a fan. Arthur respected that, perhaps more than he should—if anything, he was relieved, because he could never see Alfred with anyone but—

He snored softly now, completely engulfed in sleep. Arthur hadn't been getting much of it lately, as he was trying to rehearse: there was a large concert coming up, the largest they've ever done, and it had to be perfect. It had to be perfect for the producers, for the fans, for Alfred.

The door creaked lightly, and there were soft footsteps made by large feet. Arthur didn't stir, encumbered in a deep, wistful sleep now, open notebook scrawled with lyrics. Alfred knew Arthur wrote songs, but he'd never show, and what would be the harm of _just_ looking?

He peered over, careful not to ruffle sandy hair.

As he started to read them, his eyes went wide; they were good. He liked them _a lot_.

But something bugged him—it was, it was that it seemed that Arthur liked someone based on these lyrics. Alfred blinked a few times, scanned over the pitches and tune cues Arthur had written, and started to sing it softly. "_All this feels strange and untrue, and I won't waste a minute without you…"_ He didn't see Arthur's eyes open slightly. _"My bones ache, my skin feels cold; and I'm getting so tired and so old—" _

There was a beefy shout mere seconds after Alfred finished the first verse. "Alfred! Get down here, we need to start getting you ready!"

Without saying anything, as if Arthur was still asleep, Alfred puttered out and clicked the door shut carefully. And, as if Arthur had just heard some sort of love confession, the tips of his ears peaked red and his cheeks flushed. Alfred's voice was lovely, he thought to himself, and he loved hearing it, and he hated having these thoughts, he hated thinking that he liked someone.

He sat up, threw the notebook on the end of the couch, and got ready to go down to rehearse.

He really didn't mind always being behind the curtain, when it came down to it.

It meant that he could always peer out and see everything without being seen; he could see what it was like for a celebrity without being one, he could see what it was like to love someone without telling them. He could hide behind his own personal curtain, his emotion's little lair, and he always had.

_End Part One_


	2. Chapter 2

!: Sorry—somehow I uploaded chapter one again. Dearly sorry- I'm not quite sure what I did but clearly I am still trying to understand how works. Again again sorry sorry;;; And thanks to TeenageMouse for alerting me! 3

xxx

Ah, thank you very much for the favs and reviews! 3

As someone said, adding background information would be… Nice, right—? Anyways, _this takes place before chapter one. _

I figured that inbetween regular chapters—or the "present"—that there could be chapters that dealt with the past/how they acted/etc, etc. So, this would be considered one from the past! It's also a bit short;;;

I also moved the rating to T for language and actions, perhaps, even in later chapters.

There was one isolated incident that changed how they thought of each other. Prior to it, they were simply coworkers, forced together out of desires for fame and money; afterwords, there was some unspoken bond between the two, as if they actually understood each other, as sappy as it sounds. It sealed a rift that intertwined like a spider's web; it was holey, but needed something to swat down the thing.

It happened on a peckish night, long before they had become as famous (or as rich) as they are now. They had to share a hotel room- separate beds, of course- and Arthur was feigning sleep. He could never fall asleep in such foreign beds, with stale, unloved sheets and pillows used by other weary travelers. But he still laid in it, still kept his legs under the sheets, and his head on the pillow. It had to be but three thirty a.m. when a precocious, rambunctious song began to blare. He jumped a bit in his sleep before realizing it must've been Alfred's mobile, shaking and blaring in the heat of the room.

At first, he thought Alfred wasn't even awoken by it, but the song stopped abruptly and he heard rustling of sheets.

"Hello? ...Yeah, yeah, it's me."

There was a muted tone on the other end.

"Mmn, oh, hey, Matt, yeah, I knew it was you."

There was a pause after that, and then the room fell.

"What the fuck? Don't fuck with me, Matt, I'm not in the mood for jokes, alright? What kind of sick prank is this-"

Arthur could hear the next line clearly: "Alfred!"

Alfred waited to speak.

"I'm sorry, I... Yeah, I shouldn't have yelled. I probably woke up Arthur." Through is squinted eyes, Arthur could see Alfred craning his neck to see. He shut his eyes in a huff. "No, no, he's asleep. Okay, okay, tell me again, Matthew. And tell me slower this time, because I don't think I really heard you the first time? I mean, there's no way-"

A long, long, painful pause.

"She... Oh. She's... No, no, there's... There's no way, right?" Alfred's words were choppy and they were forced out of his constricting throat. "Matt, please, the joke's over, Matt, I... She can't be. That's impossible. That's... Why didn't you tell me-? I could've come, Matt! I could've been there! No- don't hang up, Matt- I still need to talk! No! The morning won't do, don't hang up, please, I just... I want to know more..."

Arthur heard a quiet "_Alfred I'm so sorry but please_" from the other end of the line before the phone was clicked off.

There was a thump and soon, muffled cries; the pillow had been condemned to hold all of Alfred's tears.

It continued for a long time, the crying did, before Arthur couldn't take it. He shuffled up and sat on his bed, ran a hand through his hair, and cleared his throat. Alfred didn't hear him.

"Alfred."

Still, still, hollow robs racked the room.

Arthur got up and sat on Alfred's bed, heart thumping; he placed a hand on his shoulder and shook lightly. "Alfred, please."

"I'm...so...ssorrrrmnyyy..." There were a few hics in between his smuggled words. "Arfurrmm, go awwway."

"No, not until you say what's wrong. Come on, up, up, get up." Arthur tried to paint on the kindest voice he had, but it simply didn't exist; at least, he wasn't quite sincere enough yet.

It worked, though, and soon Alfred was sitting. A bit rickety, but he was up, gummy eyes blinking away tears. He tried to hide his face, embarrassed even at such a time. The blue of his eyes stung against the red that Arthur could see, and he felt a pang of something- maybe guilt, maybe not.

And then Alfred fell into Arthur. As if all of the strength in his body had been lost. "Arthur," he said quietly, "I'm -"

his words blurred together, losing lines of definition as he continued.

"Mm, it's alright. Now... What happened?" He asked it just as quietly as Alfred had said the last line, careful not to disturb the silence that trickled between the tears.

There wasn't anything for a long time, and Arthur gave up in knowing what was going on. Eventually, he slunk back so that his back could be against the headboard of the bed; Alfred lay half over him, head on his shoulder, legs draped carelessly over Arthur's and his arms around the other's torso. Arthur kept a tender hand on his back, in an odd careful way, a sympathetic gesture.

It was after a while of sitting like this that Alfred finally said something.

"She's dead."

And that was it. Arthur's mind reeled over who it could be- a sister, a girlfriend, anyone- but he missed one of the most obvious thoughts.

"My mom, Arthur, my own mother." The cries after that had since stopped, been plugged by words, as Alfred began to spill everything he knew, everything he thought. The long chain of words ended with this: "All I know, all I know is that... If he had told me, if he told me she was dying, I could've been there."

"And tell me, Alfred, had you have been there, what would you have done?" He whispered it softly into the hair of the other.

There was a long, willowy breath. "I would've saved her, and been the hero, been the hero she always said I was destined to be, Arthur. The hero."

Once Arthur was quite sure Alfred had fallen asleep, he muttered something he didn't mean for anyone to hear. He muttered it so quietly as to bring the effect of his own ears not hearing hit.

"In due time," he let out a wry breath, "in due time, you will cope. _That _I am sure of..."

And then he fell asleep, leaving one awake in the room, one who heard every word, and one who would forever cherish them.

In due time, Alfred repeated to himself, in due time.


	3. Chapter 3

Err, friendly reminder that this takes place _after _Chapter One, while Chapter Two takes place before both One and Three.

Sorry, this is awfully confusing, even to me…? Ha—anyways, thanks for the favorites/reviews/etc., it means much more to me than a bunch of fumbly words can say! '3 I promise that this'll actually get moving soon!

* * *

"Arthur?" The quizzical phrase drifted through the empty room that Alfred had so hastily threw his head into. He'd been trying to find Arthur all day—heck, all week; Arthur had been suspiciously flaky, dodging Alfred at any given moment he could. Ever since the concert in Montana he was acting a little strange, but today, Alfred was determined to put a stop to it.

See, Alfred had just heard great news. _Wonderful_ news. Amazing news, news that would knock Arthur off of his feet, and maybe even into Alfred's arms—

He stopped that thought right there and focused his mind on ice cream instead. _Yeah, ice cream,_ he thought listlessly, _yeah. _

Alfred poked his head into the bus's bathroom. "Arthur, you in here—oh, uh, _oh_." No, no, that was most certainly not Arthur, that was not Arthur at all, that was the opposite of Arthur that was—that was not, in any way, in any universe known to man or any other alien, Arthur. "Sorry!" Alfred called out hurriedly, blush of embarrassment still tanned along his features.

After thirty minutes of searching along the bus, he decided that Arthur must've gone off for some sort of break; they had stopped in a small town, just for a few hours, so that the drivers could get their bearings. Usually the band flew, but with airports being so sparse around this area, it was easier to fly to a more populated area and take the bus from town to town. They were finally riding back to a big airport so that they could fly back to New York, back home, until their next big concert—the huge concert, the news he had to tell Arthur!

Soon his feet were tapping across the pavement, taking him to the first place he thought Arthur might be: the coffee shop. He stepped in cautiously, as he was always cautious in public now, and he was really hoping there wasn't a big lot of teenage girls in there. He lucked out with that factor, but as his eyes scanned about, he couldn't find his friend anywhere. The barista looked up from the counter interestedly, green eyes solid and pure; he turned to another brunette who was stationed next to him and whispered before giggling. Whatever he said earned him a punch in the side, but the boy still smiled, disposition obviously cheery. "Hey," he said, eyes catching Alfred's again; there was a ridiculous, knowing grin on his face, and it bugged Alfred. "You looking for someone?"

"Uh, err, no," He stepped completely inside now, and he tugged at his shirt. "Actually, yeah?"

"Well," the man probed, face going soft as the man next to him rolled his eyes; his accent, which Alfred had pegged as Spanish, rolled delicately with the music. "What do they look like?"

"Okay, well, he's about _thiiis_ tall, and he's got blonde hair, and okay, okay, so, he's got eyebrows kinda like this—" He put his index and middle fingers over his own eyebrows to display their size. "But they're darker!"

Both boys laughed, one gently and sweetly, as if he enjoyed Alfred's antics; the other laughed throatily, as if he didn't talk much, and his vocal chords needed some warming up. "I can say that that kid's sure been in here, little British guy?" He chortled again, Italian accent wavering. "Didn't seem too happy, oho."

"Oh, okay, do you know when he left—"

"Probably an hour ago," The tall one said, now turning away from Alfred to chide the other on his antics. "_Be nice, mi amigo…"_

"Thanks!" He said it quickly before the bell above the door chimed again, signaling his absence. Alfred looked around again, for any clue of where Arthur might be. He was already rather far from the bus, and figured a walk through the park might not hurt, and maybe someone there had seen Arthur. This was getting to be a bit more than it was worth—he could, after all, just wait until Arthur returned, but this was much more fun, much more _adventurous_. And if there was one thing Alfred liked that wasn't food, or sleep, or Arthur, it was adventures.

He crept around the park, slinked about; he weaved between trees, and gained a few hearty glares, but he didn't pay any pity to them. It was once he got back onto the path that he was approached by someone, not who he was looking for, but someone who looked kind enough.

"Hello," she said, hair bobbing; the wind rustled the petals of the flower that was in her hair. "I was just wondering, uh, you're…"

"Alfred, Alfie, Al, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah," She stammered and turned slightly, fishing something from the tight pockets of her jean shorts. "I was just wondering, if uh—you could sign this, maybe? Really quick?"

"Sure, anything," he said coolly, taking it and scribbling his name across it.

She lit up and took it back, clinging it to her chest. "Thank you, Alfred!" She turned to leave, but Alfred stopped her with a touch to her shoulder.

"Wait, though, uh," He pursed his lips. "I was wondering if you could help me find someone, uh, er, I mean, have you seen a boy—he's like, this tall, and he's got some big eyebrows, and they're charming but—blonde hair?"

"Ah," she said, and Alfred wondered what the hell was up with all of those smiles, the smiles that were so smug. "Yeah, he's right over there? Your assistant?" She giggled and slunk off while Alfred made perhaps the most uncomfortable eye contact with Arthur. He was sitting alone on a bench under a thick tree, guarded by shade and tall grass; there was a cup of coffee in his hand, and his legs were crossed pretentiously. There was a book lying open face down on the other side of the bench, and it wasn't saving a seat so much as making sure no one came over.

Alfred waved sheepishly and broke into a light jog, smile glued back on his face. "Hey!" He said, picking up the book and setting it, still open, into his lap. "I've been looking everywhere for you, like really, even this coffee shop where everyone was staring and—"

"And then you spent an hour creeping around the park like some sort of child," Arthur added, snapping like usual, but something was missing from his voice. "I saw everything. Have a fun time chatting up your fans?"

"What?" Alfred's brows knit together, and he turned as best he could. "Are you implying that I was flirting, because Mr. Kirkland, I'll have you know that—"

"That fans are totally your last choice for lovers, eh?" He smiled faintly and worked a thumb around the edge of his cup. "Save it, Alfred."

Alfred bit his lip. "Yeah, alright, enough with this. What's been eatin' 'ya lately, Artie?"

"Don't call me that, and I'm fine, thanks."

Alfred snorted and lightly pushed him. "Yep yep, so totally fine, I'm sure."

There was a stout silence, and it wrapped about the whole park; it seemed like the dogs stopped catching the frisbees, and the winds quit rustling the leaves. "Uh, so, Arthur I don't really know what I did but I'm sorry? So, uhm,"

"You didn't _do _anything, idiot." He said it quietly, just as everything began moving again, as the trees swayed and the dogs' paws collided with the dirt.

Alfred smiled and his hand hovered over Arthur's empty hand, just waiting to land, like a fly on food. "Hey, wait!" he exclaimed, suddenly remembering why exactly he had been searching for Arthur in the first place.

Arthur muttered something like _"I'm not going anywhere",_ but Alfred didn't hear, and he gladly continued. "Okay, so, have I got news for you, man! We got a huge concert deal. We have a tour, Arthur." Alfred grabbed Arthur's face and turned it towards him, he pulled it close, so that their eyes met softly. Alfred leaned in, so close that their noses might tap. "A _world_ tour, man!"

Arthur pulled away, flushing lightly, a slight scowl on his face that swiftly changed when he actually realized what Alfred said. "That's, that's great!"

"I know, right? I could hardly believe it. That's why I kept trying to find you, Artie!" Alfred's feet were restless and he resorted to swiftly tapping his toes on the ground, as if he was running while he was sitting. "You wanna play catch?"

"Fine, but do you even have a ball?"

"Nope, but I have this book…!"

"H-Hey—!"

They were noisy and their laughter (or childish begs of "give it back!") filled the park, and drifted into the lazy looking mid-afternoon sky.


End file.
